


When You Look to the Night Skies (Don't Think of Goodbyes)

by Wezenstyx



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I apologize in advance, I don't even know how to get a beta, I'm back at again with the Sad!Peter Parker content, The apotheosis is upon us and I'm out here writing this shit, This is what happens when you force me to stay in my house for two weeks, and i hate myself for it, bye, hoorah, i should not be allowed to tag, no one asked for this, nor do i want one, okay, so i guess i die like a man, tw for death and lots of discussions of it, yet here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wezenstyx/pseuds/Wezenstyx
Summary: “Does it ever stop hurting?”“No, you just make room for it.”In which Peter finds himself grieving three times too many over the course of ten years (or fifteen)
Relationships: Ben Parker & Peter Parker, Mary Parker & Peter Parker & Richard Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. When the Earth Stopped Turning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I don't really know where this came from, but I was bored one day and well, it happened.
> 
> Fic title inspired by The Goodbye Song from Smash  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title inspired by William Finn's song with the same name
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter is six years old when he finds himself standing in the threshold of a faded teal door. Calloused hands rested heavily on his shoulders as they usher him forward into the unbearably familiar space of his aunt and uncle’s tired living room. The same faded couch, covered in stained throw pillows (Peter’s doing) and hand-knitted blankets (May’s), still sits in the center of everything. It’s a communal spot, and while threadbare would certainly be the most accurate way to describe it, the Parker’s prefer the term “well-loved,” but that’s beside the point. It seems that on every available surface and wall photos of family and friends have been situated. The mantle, which is really just an abnormally tall and lean wooden cabinet, is reserved just for the Parker clan. There are pictures of Ben and May, Richard and Mary, all of them together, but most prominent is the smiling face of a young boy. 

There’s a soft natural light that filters in through the half-closed curtains, illuminating the room in a way that causes it to feel fresh and open. Young Peter knows that this is merely an illusion, a trick of the mind because soon after the steady weight of his father’s hands leave his shoulders, the space is going to feel suffocatingly small. 

Peter knows the routine. He knows that his dad is going to grasp Uncle Ben’s hand with a fond grin on his face and yet another “thank you for watching him” that’s been uttered a million before and Peter knows will be repeated a million in the future. Ben will shrug it off, saying that it really isn’t a problem and that he’s always happy to watch his favorite nephew (Peter always found this to be extremely silly, because he was Uncle Ben’s only nephew). 

As this exchange happens, Aunt May is going to pull Mary into a tight hug, whispering, “Stay safe,” in a tone she thinks Peter can’t hear. Mary will nod mutely into May’s shoulder, another thank you wordlessly communicated between the two. 

All the while, Peter’s Iron Man backpack pulls heavily on his spine, serving as a leaden reminder of his parents’ soon departure. In a matter of minutes, they are going to leave him; an island stranded in the middle of an all too familiar sea. Don’t get him wrong, it’s not like Peter doesn’t love his aunt and uncle. He does, he truly does. He loves watching movies with them, reading with them, going to the park with them, just spending time with them in general. It’s just that, well… he loves his parents more and he wishes they weren’t always going away. 

To avoid thinking of the inevitable, Peter finds the way that the toe of his shoe pivots on the hardwood floor incredibly interesting. His gaze is cast downward and he ignores his mother’s call for him to look up at her. He continues his quest to rub a hole through the ground. 

All of the sudden, his mom’s pale face is all he can see. She kneels precariously on her heels as she hooks a finger under Peter’s chin, forcing him to look at her. Peter frowns indignantly. 

“I love you, honey,” She tells him, frowning herself when her son refuses to respond. Peter shakes his head out of her grasp, ducking again to stare at the messily tied laces of his shoes. (Just because he learned how to do tie his shoes when he was only _four years old_ doesn’t mean he knows how to do it well.)

“Sweetie, you know that we don’t want to leave, don’t you?” She questions, finding his eyes. Her face is solemn and sad, and Peter hates being the reason for it. He hates that she’s leaving more. He pouts, his mother sighs.

After a fleeting backward glance back up towards Richard, Mary pulls her son into a tight embrace. She crushes his arms to his sides and grasps the back of his neck with one hand. “I get that you’re mad,” she says quietly, “and at this point, I think you’re allowed to be. But just because you are, doesn’t change the fact that I love you to pieces and that dad and I so sorry. If we could choose, we’d stay at home with you every day for the rest of our lives, doing nothing but watching movies and playing games. But that’s not something that we get to do, okay? ” 

She pulls back, peering at her boy morosely. He doesn’t raise his head, though she suspects the reason is the cause of her shoulder’s suspicious wetness. This time, she doesn’t force him to look up. She seizes him again and whispers, “I love you, my Peter, more than anything in this world.” 

He nods sadly into her neck. “I love you too, I guess,” is his muffled reply

Mary pulls back and laughs thickly. “You guess?” She sputters. Peter looks up, wet-eyed and grinning shyly. Mary sighs, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she stands. “I’ll take it, I suppose. Now go say goodbye to your dad.” She waves a loose hand in her husband’s direction before turning back to Ben and May.

Peter shuffles over to Richard and goes to hug his torso, however, he finds himself letting out a shocked gasp as he’s lifted into the air by his armpits. “I need a real hug from you, bud,” His father says as he shifts Peter in his arms. Peter doesn’t respond, his sour mood lessened but not truly gone. He wraps his arms around his dad’s neck, unspeaking. 

Richard responds in turn, encircling Peter in his own arms. He elicits a small chuckle when he squeezes Peter just a little too hard. “Dad,” Peter huffs, “I can’t breathe.” 

Richard relents, but not after a proud, “I love you, son.” 

Peter lets go. “I love you too, Dad.” Richard sets him back on the ground, keeping one hand on his shoulder. Mary turns from her conversation with May and Ben. She claps her hands together and offers a smile down to Peter. 

“Well,” she says. “I guess it’s time.” She walks over to Peter and bends down to press a kiss to his cheek. (She pretends not to notice when her son wipes at his face after she stands)“I love you. Please be good for your aunt and uncle. We’ll be back before you know it.” 

Peter nods, unspeaking, and offers a tight smile in return. Richard pats him on the shoulder twice, a mutually understood sentiment passed between father and son and pushes him over to stand with Ben and May. Peter drags his feet but eventually makes it over. 

His parents gather the belongings, tossing jackets over arms and tucking bags under shoulders. When everything is situated they turn with a huff towards their family. Richard has barely opened his mouth when Peter blurts to the floor, I get it, you love me. I love you too.”

And while, in any other situation, he would have gotten a firm scolding from every adult surrounding him, all anyone can think to do is laugh. 

“That we do, my boy,” Richard finally manages. “Okay. Well… I guess we’ll see you all in two weeks.” 

“Already counting down the minutes,” Ben responds with a grin. 

His parents walking out the door is as simple as that. They turn and, after one glance backward, make their way out of the room. There are no dramatics, no last-minute rushes to hug them, or any last declarations of love. It’s not necessary when they’re all going to see each other in thirteen days, twenty-three hours, fifty-seven minutes, and four seconds (Not that Peter’s keeping track). 

His dad must say something humorous as he and his mom make their way down the hallway because Peter can hear laughing. It’s joyous and carefree. Peter lets himself smile. 

* * *

It’ll be eight days after his parents were supposed to pick him up when Ben and May wander into his bedroom. Really it’s the guest bedroom, but at this point, with the action figures and lego sets scattered around every available surface, including the floor, it might as well be Peter’s. Excluding… well, excluding the fact that… Ben sighs. 

Peter is sitting by the window, gazing at the street below him anxiously. He’s still in his pajamas, space-themed fleece pants and a light t-shirt to match. The auburn hair on the back of his head sticks up. There is an incomplete lego contraption and a forgotten blanket sitting on either side of him.

Ben and May hesitate within the threshold of the room, wary and grief-stricken. Logically they know that it’s best to tell Peter themselves, that doesn’t mean that they want to. They don’t want Peter to see their puffy faces or the sorrow within their eyes. They don’t want him to have to try and understand why his parents aren’t coming back to get him. They don’t want him to have to deal with two guardians who can barely take care of themselves, much less another person for the next twelve years. They don’t want this for him, but this is the hand that he’s been dealt. 

Peter seems to feel the immense woe that has entered his presence. With a sense of maturity beyond his tender six years, he turns to his aunt and uncle and asks, “What’s wrong?” 

He takes in their faces, the unusual frowns and the bloodshot eyes, the worry lines etched across their young features. He notices the way that they lean on each other, support one another, and how painstakingly slow they make their way over to him. They kneel in front of him, Aunt May takes his hands. Hers are cold and clammy, inwardly, Peter shivers. 

“Peter,” Ben starts, his voice rough. “Before we say anything, just know that we love you very much-”

“So, so, much,” May interjects. 

“And that we are _always_ going to be here for you. No matter what. And your parents, they loved you more than _anything_ in this world. They would do anything for you.” 

Peter looks between them worriedly, confused beyond belief. “ What’s going on? When are mom and dad going to get back?” He questions. 

May and Ben look at each other. They’d fooled themselves into thinking they were prepared for this. They are not. They are very much not ready. 

“Peter, your mom… your mom and dad aren’t going to get back,” Ben whispers. 

“What? What do you mean? Are they stuck? Can we go get them?” 

“N-no, sweetheart, we can’t go get them,” May tells him. “Their plane, the one they were riding on for their trip, it went down somewhere. Peter, baby, they-” she chokes. 

“No,” Peter murmurs. “No, you’re tricking me. They’re right outside aren’t they?” He bounces up, pulling his hands from his aunt’s, and moves to leave the room. Ben catches him by the waist, he forces him to sit again. 

“I’m so sorry, Pete,” he tells his nephew, “your mom and dad, they’re gone.”

“Gone? Forever?” Peter cries. “No! They said they would come back, they promised!” He pauses for a moment, tears force their way down his face, his cheeks an angry red. Ben and May stare at him anxiously. They don’t know what to say. They don’t know how to do this. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“Wha-”

“No, swe-”

“If I had been good! If I wasn’t so… so mad, they would have stayed! I was bad! They’re gone becaus-”

He’s forced to stop as May pulls him to her, effectively muting his self-destructive spiral. She shushes him, cradling the back of his head and rocking back and forth. Ben rubs a soothing hand up and down his back. 

“Peter, this is not your fault. Not in any way,” someone tells him. He can’t tell who. The world around him is swirling and muffled. He cries harder. “Your parents loved you more than life itself. The last thing, the _very last thing_ that they ever wanted to do was leave you. I need you to believe that. They felt so lucky that they got to watch you grow, become the amazing little boy that you are. Where ever they are, honey, they’re thinking of you. You were the most important part of their lives. Please, know that.” 

Peter doesn’t respond. They don’t expect him to. Instead, he continues to sob in utter anguish. Mourning pounces on them. It sinks its teeth into their souls and its talons into their hearts. It clings to photos and memories, to the walls, the ceilings, the floor. They don’t fight it, they surrender to the grief. 

They cling to each other, unified in loss and tears. Together they’ll try to mend the hole that Richard and Mary left behind. Peter won’t understand, Ben and May won’t either. But understanding and accepting are two completely different things. They can strive for one, but never be able to reach the other. 

Both are far beyond the horizon. For now, though, for now, they have each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please understand that I have never had to tell a child that both of their parents have passed away, so I have no actual understanding of how that conversation might go. And if Peter seems a little too well-spoken for a six-year-old, well then, sorry. I always imagined he would be a bit mature for his age. 
> 
> Regardless, I hope you liked it. There's more to come.


	2. Reason Says I'm Talking To The Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sight that met him was one that he would never forget, one no child should ever have to see. There was a man, middle-aged, bleeding out on the pavement. He was motionless aside from the weak rise and fall of his chest. Peter couldn’t see his face, but there was a familiarity to the man that he didn’t sense at first. He was familiar in the way that he dressed, in his stature, the spackling of freckles on his right hand. 
> 
> The realization dawned on him in an instant, accompanied by the sinking weight of dread in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's uh, it's been a while. I have to admit, the minute the first chapter of this story was done, I lost all motivation to continue it. Then true quarantine boredom set in and here we are. 
> 
> This chapter covers the death of Uncle Ben, which the MCU never really addresses. This resulted in my taking some creative liberties. I looked over his death in the comics and then also the Maguire movie scene and this is what happened. 
> 
> Chapter title from Starkid's If I Believed
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Peter is fourteen when he finds himself wandering the darkening streets of Queens. The bustle of the city around him provides a comfort he’s in desperate need of. Logically, he knows that it’s bad for him to be out this late, to be aimlessly wandering from street to street, but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels so in control, so  _ powerful _ , that nothing could get in his way. Nothing could bring down his mood. 

The world has seen little of this  _ person _ that calls himself “Spider-Man.” He’s done his rounds on the wrestling circuit, putting his new strength to use. Not good use, perse, but use nonetheless. Being small but so impossibly strong inevitably brought the television hounds barking up his tree. A teenager drunk on success and power was more than happy to oblige. 

So here young Peter found himself, enjoying the freedom he’d recently obtained. Peter never felt like he’d been dealt a shorthand in life. Sure, his mom and dad had died, but in all honesty, he didn’t really remember them. Sure, there are times when he’ll be struck silent by the overwhelming sensation of his parent’s memory taking over. Be it the smell of May making his mom’s favorite dish or the cracking in his back as Ben hugs him just a little too hard, like his dad used to. Typically, though, these times are few and far between, and Peter never really dwells on them.

It should be known that Peter misses his parents. He really, truly does. And while he might not remember everything about them, like the sound of his dad’s laugh or the way his mom smiled, he does remember how loved and safe he felt when they were there. He remembers how his mom saying that she loved him never really failed to make him smile, or how the weight of his dad’s hands on his shoulders always provided comfort to Peter. So don’t get him wrong, Peter misses his mom and dad. It’s just that, eight years ago feels like a lifetime. In those eight years, he’s grown up, been raised by people who loved him more than life itself, he’s fanboyed over and practically worshiped the ground that people like Tony Stark have walked on, become a genius in his own right, he’s grown into his own skin. He is in no way the boy he was eight years ago, as any person is bound to grow and mature. Of course, there’s also the matter of his new abilities, foreign and exciting, which no person could ever have predicted. 

He’s pretty sure they came from this spider that bit him while he was on a field trip with his class. They had gone to OSCORP, the inferior rival to Stark Industries, in an effort to show Peter and his classmates the wonderful world of a career in the sciences. Peter, however, was not in need of any type of persuasion when it came to such a profession. It was his dream to one day work at some lab that would work towards changing the world, how they did that he wasn’t exactly sure, but he always figured that it would have something to do with engineering. 

Regardless of the fact that Stark Industries was far superior to OSCORP in an uncountable number of ways, cool scientific work was still cool scientific work regardless of who was conducting it. Peter found himself marveling at the intricate machines that seemed to surround him, the hustle and bustle of employees working out problems he didn’t think he would ever fully understand, and the general facade of the building. He couldn’t deny that the OSCORP tower was certainly an architectural feat and a beautiful one at that. 

That, however, is all beside the point. What had happened was this: Peter was soaking in every word and bit of information that the tour guide graciously gave him and his classmates. She was talking to them about some of the animals that OSCORP quote en quote “employed,” and he was so immersed in it all that he didn’t really comprehend the spider that was making its way into his peripheral. That is, of course, until it landed startlingly on his arm. 

Now, Peter likened himself a scientist, so while his gut reaction was to perform an impromptu hokey-pokey, he willed himself to stay still for a moment, so as to get a good look at the thing. Gather characteristics and all that. The thing was creepy as all hell, definitely not a normal spider. He was no expert, especially since the things scared the living bejesus out of him, but he was pretty sure that there wasn’t any spider that had a blue and red thorax. 

This observational period lasted all of three seconds when, unsurprisingly, the spider decided to take action. Before Peter could react, it had sunken its fangs into the tender flesh of his forearm. The jolt of pain was momentary, but enough to preoccupy the teen and allow the arachnid to make its scuttling escape. 

After that Peter was on high alert, as anyone would be, but nothing came from the rest of the tour. Or the bite for that matter. The remainder of the tour was cool, sure, but Peter couldn’t really bring himself to care, understandably preoccupied. He'd walked around for another half hour, not feeling anything off or sick, which he thought he would’ve had the spider been venomous. 

Ultimately, as any fourteen-year-old boy is prone to do, he forgets about it. When he gets sick in the following days, he attributes it to the flu that’s been making its way around school and doesn't think much of it. Granted, it had been much worse than any time he’d had the flu previously, but again, teenage boys aren’t the most deductive. Especially when they’re sick. 

The first real shock came when he woke up one morning, out of the woods and on the mend, and found that he didn’t need his glasses. Now, Peter typically couldn’t see for shit without his glasses, so waking up on a Thursday morning, his disaster of a room a clearer image than it had been in fourteen years, was pretty damn shocking. On top of that, when he went to open the door (running late, in true Peter Parker fashion), he pulled the whole doorknob off. May had dismissed it on account of the fact that it was as old as dirt, and needed to be replaced anyway. 

So long story short, that’s how it all happened. The next thing Peter knew, he was sticking to things for unexplainable reasons, was actually able to hold his own in P.E, and could almost  _ sense _ when someone like Flash was about to throw him into the lockers or cause him to trip by a rouge foot sticking out in front of him. At first, he didn’t quite know what to make of it all, and while he was basking in his new strength and abilities, he had to admit, it frightened him just the slightest amount. 

Eventually, though, he found himself participating in wrestling tournaments to earn some extra cash, and after gaining some notoriety through that, on television as well. Peter wasn’t stupid, in the general sense of the word, he knew that he had to conceal his identity. No one would allow a minor to get beat up by a two-hundred-pound beast of a man. He thought the best thing to do was to pay homage to the presumed power giver and call himself  _ Spider-Man _ . 

This long and winding road is what led Peter to where he is now, on his way back home after winning yet another tournament. He’d been cheated out of his winnings, but karma did its part and had some thief take the boss’ cash. They had yelled for Peter to stop the criminal, but he was feeling petty, so he didn’t. He likes being known as some wrestling prodigy, no longer the “Puny Parker” he once was. He was walking on air, oblivious to the darkening sky and the flickering street lights above him. 

The pep in his step stopped, though, when he heard a shot ring out into the quiet dusk. Gunfire wasn’t necessarily uncommon in New York, but it sounded so close that Peter had to stop. He had to remind himself, though, that he’d been hearing much better lately, so what sounded close might actually be blocks away. Ultimately, he decided to investigate, to follow the sound, his teenage recklessness and curiosity overpowering his regard for self-preservation. 

His search led him to a small crowd, no more than thirty or so people, circling something. Using his size to his advantage, Peter maneuvered his way around and under people until he could see for himself what they were looking at. As he moved he gave mumbled apologies and murmured  _ excuse me’ _ s. 

The sight that met him was one that he would never forget, one no child should ever have to see. There was a man, middle-aged, bleeding out on the pavement. He was motionless aside from the weak rise and fall of his chest. Peter couldn’t see his face, but there was a familiarity to the man that he didn’t sense at first. He was familiar in the way that he dressed, in his stature, the spackling of freckles on his right hand. 

The realization dawned on him in an instant, accompanied by the sinking weight of dread in his stomach. “Ben!” he screeched involuntarily. “Tha- that’s my uncle!” He pushed passed the officer that was blocking him, an easy feat considering the fact that all she’d done was put her arm out.

Peter tumbled to the ground beside Ben, tears already streaking down his cheeks. “Uncle Ben!” he whimpered.

Ben’s eyes opened. With great trouble, he lifted his head, peering at his nephew. A pained smile spread slowly across his face. It looked more like a grimace. “Peter,” he breathed, relieved. He reaches a limp hand in Peter’s direction, he takes it without hesitation. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Uncle Ben. I- I promise,” Peter cried. 

“Peter,” Ben said again, his voice raspy and faint. His grip on Peter’s hand loosened. 

“Ben, no, no, please! You have to hold on! Can someone please call 911? Anyone!”

“Peter.”

“I’m going to get you help, Uncle Ben, just please don’t go!” 

“I love you, son.”

“I love you, too,” his voice cracked. “I know May does too, and she’s going to tell you because you’re going to get help! You just have to hold on.” 

Ben smiled that faint and pained smile again. There was resignation in his eyes, acceptance of a fate that Peter wouldn’t let himself consider. He felt Ben squeeze his hand, one final goodbye, before his head fell back and his eyes fell closed. 

“No!” Peter wailed. “Uncle Ben, please! No!” His protests devolved into heavy sobs, thick tears falling down his cheeks. His head fell to Ben’s chest, his neck no longer able to hold it up with the weight of what happened. The murmuring of spectators slowly dissipated as cops forced them to leave, to give a grieving boy some space. No one dared approach him, much less get him to leave as well.

Peter has no idea how long he sits, crying into Ben’s chest. It felt like days, years, an eternity, but somewhere he heard that it was more like a half-hour. By the time they’d contacted May and she’d come to retrieve him, tear tracks of her own gracing her delicate features, Peter’s throat was sore beyond belief and his voice was extraordinarily hoarse. 

Somehow they’d coaxed him away from Ben and onto a bench twenty feet away. He’d sat there numbly, staring at his hands, stained red. The second she had arrived, May had pulled Peter to her, much in the same way she had when he’d received the news of his parents' death. She pressed her lips into his hair, indistinct whispers spewing from her mouth. Peter was sure that they were meant to comfort him, but he was too out of it to really even acknowledge her. He had no tears left to cry, no voice left to scream with, no life worth living. At least not anymore. 

In the coming weeks and months, Ben’s murder will be investigated. It’s not treated with much care since people are killed in muggings all the time. The final story ended up being that Ben had left their apartment in Queens in search of Peter, who had missed his curfew by about an hour and a half. He’d been wandering the streets for fifteen minutes when he came across a mugger attacking a young woman. According to witnesses, the guy already had a significant amount of cash on him, as if he’d already had quite a few successful assaults. Ben, in true Ben fashion, had, without hesitation, gone up to the pair and attempted to end the altercation. Unfortunately, (that was how they told them,  _ unfortunately _ , as if with this unlucky incident Peter’s whole world hadn’t been turned upside down) Ben had startled the mugger who instinctually fired a gun he had concealed in his jacket pocket. The rest is, well, history. 

* * *

He’ll be fifteen when the first anniversary comes around, hitting just as hard as it did the night that his uncle died. He’ll suffer in silence as he trudges through the motions of his day. He’ll flunk his Spanish test, but a simple call from May and a request to retake it before school the next Tuesday will fix that problem. He’ll make his way to Avengers Tower, trying and failing to get rid of the dark grey cloud looming over his head. In truth, he won’t really want it to be gone, he appreciates the consistency of grief. And he feels he needs the constant reminder.

It was his fault, he discovered later. The utter horror that Peter felt when it was revealed that the very mugger that shot and killed his uncle, was the same that had robbed the wrestling gym not a half-hour before Ben’s death, was indescribable and immeasurable. Peter could have stopped him, could have prevented everything, but instead, he let his pettiness get in the way. The knowledge of it puts such a weight on his conscience that sometimes he thinks he’s eaten lead that’s settled at the bottom of his stomach or had his feet plunged into the concrete. 

When he’ll get to the lab, ready to work on his suit with Mr. Stark, it will be without his usual chipperness. Of course Mr. Stark knew of Ben’s death, but he didn’t know that today was the day. It will take all of two seconds for him to notice Peter’s unusual attitude. 

“Hey, you okay, kid?” He’ll ask, unsure of how to truly approach the situation. Peter won’t look up from where he’ll settle at one of the far tables, his suit laid out in front of him. “Peter?” 

“Hm?” Petter will hum. “Oh, uh, yeah Mr. Stark. I’m… I’m fine.” 

“You’re not yourself, are you sure?”

“Yeah, just, um, it’s been a  _ really _ bad day.” 

“Do you, uh, do you want to talk about it?” Tony will refuse to admit to himself that he wants Peter to say no. 

“No, I’ll be okay-” a silent sigh of relief “- thank you, though.” 

“No problem, underoos.” A beat. “But if you need anything or well, need to talk about anything, just er, say the word. I’m here.” 

Peter will look up, a hint of a smile on his face. The first of anything of the sort in a long time. Something about it all will feel strikingly familiar, in a way that soothes his aching heart but pulls on it too. Nostalgia dripped with grief. He’ll choose to let himself be comforted by it. 

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. That means a lot.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope that wasn't too wonky, I'm not terribly confident in it. 
> 
> I think you can guess what the next chapter might cover, but who knows when it's going to go up.
> 
> Please stay healthy!


	3. Spinning on This Infinite Road (Terrified of Letting You Go)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Listen, letting go of you was the hardest thing I ever had to do. And if I could get you back, if I could right some of my wrongs, even if it’s only a few, then I have to do it. There isn’t a question. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, hi. It's been a while, hasn't it? I know that not a ton of people were necessarily banging down my door to finish this story, but I still feel bad that it has taken me this long to get to this point. I wrote this chapter three times before I was really happy with it, but ultimately I'm proud of how it turned out. 
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my crap stories, I hope that you enjoy. 
> 
> Chapter title inspired by "Home" from Beetlejuice The Musical

Peter is sixteen (technically twenty-one, he supposes) when he attends the funeral of Anthony Edward Stark. It’s a doleful affair, as funerals are apt to be. Mourners are found across the planet, but the actual event is much more intimate. Peter is numb throughout the whole event, still reeling from returning to a world that spent five years without him. Reeling from the changes that he’s had to face in a matter of hours. This numbness prevents him from crying, though he feels like at any moment the dam could break, and everything that he’s been holding back since the Final Battle will all come flooding out. 

_Hey! Holy cow! You will not believe what’s been going on._

The sky has long since turned dark by the time someone finds him out on the dock, his feet dangling lazily in the water. The pant legs of his tux are resting precariously above his knees, threatening to spill over and ruin themselves in the lake. He has long since discarded his suit jacket and tie, and he forgets where they landed. He can’t bring himself to care. With everything that has happened in the past week and a half alone, two articles of clothing are the least of his problems. 

_Do you remember when we were in space?_

There’s a thickness to the air around him, a weight settling on his shoulders, pulling on his spine. It is accentuated by fatigue settling deep within him, exhaustion that stems beyond that of sleep deprivation, though he’s sure that plays a part in it. He feels like he’s been moving in slow motion, or trying to wade through water. He’s found that taking a single step or even a single breath requires copious amounts of his dwindling energy. He’s drowning, but he just doesn’t know it yet. 

_And I got all dusty? An’ I must’ve passed out._

Weakly, he shifts his foot in the water and watches as the faint ripples dissipate farther out in the lake. The night provides a barrier from the world around him. It hides the cabin behind him in its tenebrosity, along with the alpaca and the well-groomed garden, and the all-around _quaint-ness_ of the life that Tony had adopted in Peter’s absence. Five years. _Five years_ , he’d been gone. No, not gone; _dead_. Deceased, bitten the dust (that one's a bit too on the nose), kicked his last bucket, erased from existence, whatever you wanted to call it. For five years, Peter had been decidedly not alive. 

And the world had simply moved on without him. 

_Because I woke up, and you were gone._

Mr. Stark had moved on. Mr. Stark got married. Mr. Stark moved out of Manhattan and into a lakehouse in upstate New York. Mr. Stark retired, put up the suit. Mr. Stark _bought an alpaca_. 

Mr. Stark had a daughter.

He had a family, and Peter wasn’t there to witness it. 

_But Dr. Strange was there, right? And he was like, “It’s been five years, come on, they need us.”_

Not that Peter is so naive to think that he would have played an active role in the life of Tony Stark and his family if he hadn’t been dusted. But, considering the mentor/mentee relationship that he’d shared with Mr. Stark, he would like to think that he would’ve at least attended his wedding. Maybe he would’ve helped him move into his new house, or weed his vegetable garden. Maybe Peter would’ve even been at the hospital the day that Mr. Stark’s daughter was born. Maybe he would’ve been able to hold her and coo at her, and decide then and there that he would do anything for her. Maybe, just maybe. 

_And then he started doing that yellow sparkly thing that he does all the time-_

But, the world is a cruel and unforgiving place, and those events would never come to pass. Instead, he had to grapple with the fact that he had missed all of those moments and thousands more. Instead, he had to wake up alone on a foreign planet, fight in a battle that took the life of the closest thing to a father he’d had since Ben died, attend the funeral of the aforementioned father figure, and rediscover a world that had mourned the loss of him and millions of others. 

_What-what're you doing?_

Peter wraps his arms tightly around himself. He shivers as a heavy breeze causes his starched sleeves to jostle against his arms while simultaneously wrestling yet another piece of hair from its loosely gelled prison. He’s sure he looks like an absolute wreck with the heavy bags under his eyes and the sunken cheeks. But he’s stated this before, he can’t bring himself to care. Things like his appearance have become so trivial in light of recent events. How can they when a good man is dead, a world is without its hero, a student is without his teacher, a wife is without her husband, a daughter is without her father. 

_Oh. This… this is nice._

“What are you doing?” asks a feminine voice behind him. She startles Peter, forcing him out of his contemplative stupor. It isn’t May or Pepper talking to him, it’s someone much younger. This is none other than Morgan Stark. He’s spoken to her some, but nothing more than half-hearted exhausted condolences. His interactions with here have always been in passing. 

Of course, this has always been intentional on his part, simply because he can’t look into her eyes (Mr. Stark’s eyes) and pretend he’s not jealous. He can’t put on a false front in saying that he’s not heartbroken over the time he’s lost, the time she got instead of him. He can’t act like he’s not mildly resentful of the fact that she got to experience a side of Tony that he never would. Selfishly, he likes to think that he’s the one that was starting to bring that side of him out. There’s no avoiding her this time. 

“Just thinking,” he replies quietly, turning back to look at her for a second. She’s dressed in a nightdress, clearly set to go to bed. Her bare feet strike a stark contrast against the darkness of the night. He turns back around, looking absently at the moon’s fragmented reflection in the lake.

“‘Bout what?” She questions, padding over to the edge of the dock and sitting down next to him. He avoids her quizzical glance. After a second, she pulls her nightgown up to her knees, similar to how he has his pant legs and lets her feet dangle over the lake. Her legs aren’t long enough for her to be touching the still water. 

Peter hesitates, wondering just how much she should or needs to know. Or even how much she does know. “I’m thinking about your Dad,” he finally says. 

Morgan nods solemnly. “I miss my daddy.”

“Yeah,” Peter whispers. “I miss him too.” They’re both quiet for a beat, both lost in their own minds and thoughts.

“My daddy makes the best pancakes,” Morgan states. 

“Did he?”

“Yeah, and…” Morgan lowers her voice to a whisper, “sometimes he lets me have a popsicle _after_ my bedtime.”

“How _scandalous._ ” Peter gasps. Much to his chagrin, he finds himself smiling down at the girl. “Wait... isn’t it after your bedtime right now?” 

Morgan nods. “Yeah. But I saw you out my window. You looked lonely.” It isn’t a question. 

“Well, while I appreciate it, Ms. Morgan, you shouldn’t lose sleep because of me.”

Morgan shrugs. “I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.”

“Why not?”

“My daddy always tucks me in.”

It’s explanation enough. Morgan looks down at her lap, swinging her feet under her. Peter goes quiet, unsure of how to comfort her.

“He tells me stories about Spider-Man,” Morgan whispers, “before I fall asleep.”

“Really?” Peter chokes. 

“Yeah, he said that Spider-Man was his friend, but he went away before I was born.”

“Where did he go?”

“Daddy said he went to a better place. Whenever I ask if he’s going to come back, Daddy gets all quiet. He always says that he doesn’t know, but that he hopes so. I hope so too, I want to meet him.” 

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because he’s nice. And funny.” 

“Two very good reasons.” 

“Do you think that Spider-Man will come back?” 

“I don’t know, Morgan. I really don’t know.” 

It marks an end to their conversation 

* * *

**So… you’re the spider-ling… crime-fighting spider… Spider-Boy?**

In the end, Spider-Man does come back, albeit sparingly. He’s welcomed with open arms, but it was never his community’s acceptance or possible lack thereof that was holding him back. No, he was held back by the overwhelming queasiness that would settle at the bottom of his stomach each time he looked at Mr. Stark’s suit, much less put it on. 

But he has an obligation, an obligation to Queens, to New York, to the little guy. He has an obligation to Mr. Stark, to uphold the legacy that he left behind. He has an obligation to himself, to prove that he can be the hero he once was or at least perceived himself to be. 

Despite this obligation, Peter tries to escape, but only for a little bit. This trip to Europe was only supposed to last two weeks. All he wanted was two weeks to be rid of the web-slinging and the fighting, the grief, and the mourning. Peter never gets what he wants. 

_Everywhere I go, I see his face_.

In all fairness, Europe starts off relatively great. Sure, he fumbles over almost every interaction he has with MJ, but at least he’s interacting with her. But then the water blob _had_ to attack Venice, and Peter can’t let a city get attacked without at least trying to help save it. It’s at that moment that he meets Quinten Beck. A hero from another world, according to Fury. An asset that they’re lucky to have.

 **_Never apologize for being the smartest person in the room._ **

The thing about Beck is that he was almost too perfect. His story was that he’d come from his world, a wasteland, to stop the elementals that had destroyed it from causing more damage and death. Admirable. He was experienced, having witnessed more than Peter could ever hope to understand, but he was humble about it. He understood Peter in a way that almost no one else did. He saw him for what he was, a kid who was in way over his head. A kid who was drowning, desperate for someone to reach their hand out, to pull him out of the water and teach him how to swim. Perhaps Beck was too willing to fit into that role, that teacher that Peter had lost. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let all of his barriers down as quickly as he did.

It doesn’t take long for it all to go to absolute shit. Beck, the bastard, had been lying from the start. He’d preyed on Peter’s emotions, violated his trust, all to fulfill a vendetta against a dead man. And Peter had the naivete to believe him, to hand over the one thing that Mr. Stark had entrusted him with. Beck beats him to the ground more times than he can count, and never hesitates to punctuate the betrayal by kicking him each time he’s down. Should this not paint the picture well enough, he hits Peter with a train, and a high speed one at that. 

**_If you were good enough, maybe Tony would still be alive_ **

Very quickly, it all becomes too much. The grief, the guilt, the pain, all of it. He can’t handle it anymore. So, when he shatters into a million pieces, he isn’t surprised. He’s just glad that someone is there to help him pick up the pieces. 

( “I don’t know if that’s me, Happy. I’m not Iron Man.” 

“You’re not Iron Man. You’re never gonna be Iron Man. Nobody can live up to Tony, not even Tony. Tony was my best friend and he was a mess. He second-guessed everything he did, he was _all over the place_. The one thing that he did that he didn’t second guess was _picking you._ I don’t think Tony would have done what he did if he didn’t know that you were going to be here after he was gone.”) 

So he dusts himself off and he gets back up. After all, no one can keep Spider-Man down for long. With Happy’s help and support, most importantly, he makes a plan. It starts with a new suit, one he designs for himself. He forces himself to stop focusing on the mistakes he’d made and start trying to figure out how to rectify them. He’s going to get EDITH back, he’s going to stop Beck, he’s going to make Mr. Stark proud. 

So that’s what he does. Miraculously, he defeats Beck, beats him at his own game. He stops him from not only killing all his friends but also destroying half of Europe. He gets the girl, she accepts him for who he is and all his flaws, sees his brokenness, and wants him in spite of it. He goes home, a new passion for Spider-Man-ing sparked within him. For the first time in a long time, he’s _happy._

Until he’s not.

* * *

**_Spider-Man’s real name is- Spider-Man’s name is Peter Parker_ **

Peter seeks refuge at the Stark lakehouse. Pepper welcomes him with a hug and a sympathetic look on her face. Morgan greets him by barreling towards his legs, nearly knocking them both off the porch. She then proceeds to try and drag him into the main room, insisting that he help her build her latest lego set. He’s quick to comply with her wish, grateful for the time to get his current mess of a life out of his head. She keeps him busy with various tasks, some of which include legos, others a plastic tea set, some a tent kept on the lawn. They’d been at it for hours when Pepper finally calls Morgan in for her dinner, a no-nonsense look on her face that stops the girl’s whines before they even have the chance to form. 

He hasn’t spoken to May since the news got out. The thought to call her is only just crossing his mind when Pepper shoves a phone into his hand and tells him to talk. 

“Hey, May,” Peter breathes, exhaustion seeping into his voice.

“Peter are you okay?” The words seem to tumble out of her mouth. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Morgan’s been keeping me busy.” 

“But you’re not hurt?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“You were right to go to the Stark’s. It’s probably the safest place for you right now.”

“Yes… It’s probably one of the only good decisions I’ve made in the past couple of months.”

May sighs on the other end of the line. Peter moves outside to the porch, sitting down on the bench that faces the lake. The sunset casts an orange glimmer over the trees of the forest. He takes a moment to appreciate its beauty. 

“Peter… can we not start this again? Please, for the love, learn to forgive yourself. You’re sixteen, you’re allowed to make mistakes. You need to learn from them, not spend the rest of your life trying to fix them” 

Peter hums. “I know, May. Old habits die hard.” 

They stay on the phone for a while more, some of it practical, some of it simply small talk to get their minds off of the world that’s crashing and burning around them. It’s late when they finally end the call. Morgan had been put to bed hours ago by that point, Pepper had cleared dinner’s dishes and cleaned the debris left behind by the storm that is Morgan Stark. Peter offered to help, but she dismissed him with a flick of her hand and a small smile. He was inclined to disagree with her, but there’s something so formidable within the Pepper Stark, that he couldn’t find the strength to do so.

* * *

_I just wanted to be like you._ **And I wanted you to be better.**

Walking into Mr. Stark’s home lab is surreal to Peter. He hadn’t dared approach it when he’d been there for the funeral, having felt simultaneous that he was overstepping his bounds and that he probably couldn’t bear it if he weren’t. That was months ago, though, and Pepper wouldn’t seem to take no for an answer. She wanted him to have time to himself, she said. 

“And if you’re anything like Tony was, that’s the only place you’ll be truly at home.” 

He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. There are forgotten projects left out on tables, tools scattered about the floor, empty cans crushed in the corner of the room. It’s a moment frozen in time and Peter isn’t sure he wants to mess it up. 

“Hello, Peter.” 

“Hey, Fri. How are you?” Peter responds, speaking to the ceiling. 

“As artificial intelligence, I am incapable of feelings, you know this.”

Peter huffs a laugh. “Right.” 

“But if I were, I believe the appropriate word would be ‘fine.’ How are you?”

“Uh… Not great, Friday. Not great at all.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s just been a hard couple of months. That’s all.”

Peter moves to sit glumly on one of the stools. He picks at some wiring left out on the table beside him. 

“Should you need a distraction, Boss left a box or two of some of your old projects in the storage closet.”

Peter stiffens. “He did?”

“Yes.”

Which is how Peter finds himself rummaging through old web cartridges, suit upgrade prototypes, various blueprints, and webbing formulas all stuffed haphazardly into a couple of boxes. Part of him can't believe that Mr. Stark kept it all, another is incredibly touched that he had. 

He doesn’t know exactly what he wants to do with it all, feeling like they belonged to another Peter and not himself. So he settles for sorting it, deciding what he thinks he might work on later and what he wants to put back away. He’s reached the end of the last box when he finds something he doesn’t recognize. 

“Fri, what’s this?” He asks. 

“It appears to be a flash drive.” 

“Yes, I can see that. Why is it with my stuff? I never used these.”

“I suppose Boss wanted you to have it.” 

“Huh.”

“Would you like to look at what is on it?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” 

**And if you died, I’d feel like that’s on me.**

Friday supplies the necessary tools in order for Peter to view what’s on the flash drive. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting but it certainly isn’t what he gets. 

“Hello, uh, Peter,” says the hologram in front of him. It’s rather awkward and Mr. Stark of the past seems to get that impression too. “Christ, what am I doing? Talking to a dead kid. Jesus.” He pauses, debating with himself. “What the hell? I might as well finish. It has been-” he looks at his watch “-eight days since, you know. I’m currently stuck in space with some girl who has absolutely no idea how to have fun and whose skin blue and we are both rapidly running out of air. Not that I’d expect you to care, being um, not here and all.” He’s quiet for a bit.

“I suppose, Peter, that part of me doesn’t want to accept that you’re gone. ‘Cause when I do, I’ll have to face the fact that it’s my fault. I brought you into this mess and I wasn’t strong enough to get you out of it. You paid the price for my mistake, and I’m sorry. I wish… I wish that I’d let you continue your exploits in a onesie and under the guise of presumed anonymity. You were fourteen, you didn’t need to be brought into my world, my war. I understood that I just wish I had cared.” 

The next one is from a couple of months later. 

“I’m moving out of the compound, Peter. It’s practically a wasteland, I can’t stay there any longer. It’s also because Pep and I are getting married, and I think we need a place of our own. Someplace without ghosts.” 

The ones that follow are mere snippets of the life that Tony led in the five years after Peter died. Some are serious, riddled with emotion that Tony never would have dared to share with him face to face. Other’s are ramblings, just him going on about some new project or recalling a memory from years passed. One message in particular sticks out to him:

“She’s here, Peter. She’s here and she’s beautiful. We named her Morgan, after some uncle of Pepper’s. I think I first proposed it as a joke, years ago, but now it doesn’t feel like anything else fits as well as Morgan does. I’m worried she’s going to make me all soft and sappy. Like some kind of, I don’t know, dad I suppose. Dad... Jesus. I’m a dad. 

“I think that… I think that I have you to thank for that, Peter. I never wanted kids until I met you, until I saw how great they could be. You were so much better than me, Peter. I only wish that I could be half the man you were destined to be. You’d gone through so much, and you were still so good, so unfailingly selfless. Stupid, mind you, but stupid in the way that you would jump into danger headfirst just to save a cat from a tree or help some woman cross the street. 

“I think that I’m going to have to stop making these. I mean, I have a newborn now, I don’t think I’ll have much time to do anything other than taking care of her. But, I, uh, I miss you, Peter. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing you. And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

It has to be the last recording, but Peter thinks that he would’ve been content if Mr. Stark had made only one. He doesn’t know when the tears started, but he suddenly becomes aware of the fact that the collar of his shirt and his cheeks are wet, and that his throat stings. A sob escapes from him, choked and painful. He doesn’t try to stop any of it. This is something he’s been holding back for a long time. 

“So I’ve made a decision,” says Mr. Stark suddenly. It startles Peter. Friday must’ve waited to play it as if she wanted to give him time to grieve. “I think it’s probably the dumbest decision I have ever made, but I’m going to do it, Peter. I’m going to bring you back. Or… I’m going to try to at least. Steve has this plan, or a hope more like, to reverse what Thanos did. I’m going to have to figure out how to time travel in order to do it, but I don’t know… somehow it seems plausible. 

“But I’m jeopardizing everything. I have no idea what could happen when we do this, I could lose this life, lose Pepper, lose… lose Morgan. I know what you would say, you would tell me not to take that risk, to hold onto my girls as tightly as I can and never give you a second thought. And that’s exactly why I have to do it. The world doesn’t just need Spider-Man, Peter, it needs you. It needs Peter Parker.” Mr. Stark sighs heavily.

“Listen, letting go of you was the hardest thing I have _ever_ had to do. And if I could get you back, if I could right some of my wrongs, even if it’s only a few, then I have to do it. There isn’t a question. 

“If you see this, it means that I didn’t make it, but I can only assume that it means Morgan did. And you did, of course. It means that it worked. I don’t want you to drive yourself crazy with guilt, or blame yourself for anything. None of it, and I mean _none_ of it is your fault. I would give my life a thousand times over if it meant that you get to live yours just once.” Tony goes quiet again. 

“I’ll see you soon, Peter.” 

And then Tony is gone. 

**Pete, you gotta let go. I’m gonna catch you**.

* * *

Peter is twenty-six when he finds himself on the Stark’s dock once more. He’s lying flat on his back simply gazing at the sky above him. The night had set in quickly, allowing for thousands of stars to blink into action. They glitter and dance by themselves, giving off an aura of buoyant freedom. It puts Peter at ease. The hum of the cicadas and the lapping of the lake’s pitiful waves against the shore lull him into a peaceful trance. It’s nice, this life that Mr. Stark had chosen all those years ago. 

_Mr. Stark? Hey-Mr. Stark? Can you hear me?_

“I thought I’d find you out here,” someone says. Their tone is light, happy. 

“We must stop meeting like this,” Peter says to the sky. 

“Nah,” Morgan dismisses. “These late-night rendezvous are a tradition, my dear well-nigh brother. I wouldn’t let them end if someone promised me a million dollars.”

Morgan makes her way over to him, stopping just above his head and peering down at him. She’s dressed in a tank top and plaid sleep pants. They’re a far cry from the nightgowns and footie pajamas of years past. 

Peter scoffs, but his grin never leaves his face. “Please, as if a million dollars is something you would even consider. It’s much too low.”

Morgan huffs a laugh as she sits down next to him, inclining her head towards the sky. “It’s a beautiful night,” she says absentmindedly. 

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

“Nights like these always make me think of my dad.”

_It’s Peter._

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. There's something nostalgic about nights like tonight, it just makes you want to reflect. I think maybe it's because of how still everything is, like there's nothing else to do but think, reminisce. The only person I have to reminisce about is my dad. Which is kinda ironic, considering peaceful and still are two things absolutely no one would use to describe him.”

“I think he’s found peace. I think he found peace a long time ago.”

They both go quiet, reminiscing. The silence is companionable. It’s hard for Peter to believe that ten years have already gone by. For ten years he’s lived in a world without Tony Stark, only to find him again, or pieces of him at least, in his daughter. 

“He’s proud of you, you know,” he tells her. “Wherever he is.” 

“You think so?”

“Morgan, I know so. He’s been proud of you since the day you were born. You think that he never slowed down, and, to be fair, for a long time he didn’t. He was running then, from his past, from his grief, from his demons. _You_ gave him a reason to slow down. Mo, you gave him peace.”

_We won, Mr. Stark. We won-_

“I miss him,” Morgan breathes. “I really really miss him.”

“I do too.” Peter sits up, wrapping an arm around her. She leans into him. 

“Does it ever stop hurting? Him being gone?”

Peter sighs, rubbing his hand along Morgan’s arm.

“No,” he murmurs, “you just make room for it. You keep him in your heart, along with the pain, and you never let yourself forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Everything he did for you, the late-night popsicles, the games he’d play with you, the movies he’d suffer through for you, the teasing, the hugs, kisses, all of it. You never let yourself forget how much they loved you.” 

_Mr.Stark, we won. You did it, sir_

“You know, when I was little, I would tell him that I loved him three thousand. It was this dumb thing we did to, you know, tell the other just how much we loved them. But there was one specific day where he’d been sad and I hadn’t known why. Of course, now I can infer, it was right around the time that he started working on the time travel stuff. Some of the Avengers had shown up earlier, but they kinda just made him angry. He only got sad when I caught him in the kitchen, staring at a picture of some teenager and him. It was you, I’d later discover, in the picture. But I wanted to cheer him up and that was the best way I knew how. Looking back, though, he looked at that picture a lot, and he always had this aura of, I don't know, despair, I guess, when he did. ”

Peter gave her a weak smile. He knew which picture she was talking about, it was still set up in the kitchen. Apparently, no one ever had the heart, or desire maybe, to move it. 

“What I’m trying to say, Peter, is that you shouldn’t sell yourself short. You brought something to his life that I don’t think I ever could have. Yes, I’m his daughter, but you were just as important to him. You were the reason he did what he did and I think everyone but you seems to recognize that.” 

The darkness of the night does little to mask the wetness of Peter’s cheeks. Or Morgan’s for that matter. 

“Thank you, Mo,” Peter says. “Really.”

_You did it… Tony_

“No problem, Petey.”

Peter laughs thickly at the nickname. Morgan’s the only one that’s ever called him that. It was what she called him almost exclusively when she was little, now it’s simply a throwback to another time. 

“Well, we’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

“Yes, quite.” 

Morgan leans her head against Peter’s, lifting her gaze back towards the sky. The stars are still vigilant in their glimmering. 

“I miss you, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers into the night.

“I love you three thousand, Dad,” Morgan adds.

Its response is nothing more than a light breeze that ruffles the leaves in the trees. But neither of them expected anything else.

* * *

_**fin.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always had trouble truly capturing Tony's character, his wit and sarcasm being the main offenders. If you think that he's written a little too out of character, please let me know and I'll try to rectify it. 
> 
> Please stay healthy! And for the love of God, wear a mask!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it.
> 
> (Small little side note, as of 2:41 in the morning on December 31, 2020, this chapter has been edited slightly. Nothing major, just restructuring and the occasional rewritten paragraph.)


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